


Holding a Crown Which Has Dried Blood on It

by BoostSpoon



Series: Exiled King! George and Ghostbur AU Fic Series [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Royalty, DSMP! Dream has no rights., M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Not A Happy Ending, brothers fighting ooo, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29228106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoostSpoon/pseuds/BoostSpoon
Summary: George summons a God to help him in taking his elder brother's Crown. It starts going very very terribly. And George doesn't see what Dream is doing to him until it's too late.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Exiled King! George and Ghostbur AU Fic Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2146104
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	Holding a Crown Which Has Dried Blood on It

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Quick trigger warning, for this work contains mild sexual content and mentions of abuse (specifically mental abuse). If those do not sound like things you like in your fanfiction, you are free to go to another fanfic.
> 
> Another PSA: Please do not share this work with any of the CCs mentioned here. This fic also does not reflect on their irl relationships or how I myself feel about their friendships. This is simply an au that takes heavy inspiration from the CCs' D!SMP characters. 
> 
> A Special thanks to the homies of Our Brain: Meda, Cycy, Ara, Bee, and Star (especially Meda because they created this au) and my gf Noodles, who kept me laughing through the pain with vc calls and Omori playthroughs.
> 
> This will have a second part, because this is actually a Georgebur au, this is something I had to get out of the way for not only exposition purposes, but also because I realized my Karlnap story was getting a tad dark and this was the result of all that.
> 
> With that said, enjoy the story, Reader. And hi, Our Brain peeps + my girlfriend! How are you guys? :)

Brilliant greens and golds emerge from behind a simple white mask, the only trace of emotion being the seemingly drawn on smile that was plastered to the white. A sheer contrast to the breathtaking view and the slight gliding over the youngest prince of the grandest and most powerful of the nine kingdoms, looking at a figure only known in his kingdom’s history as “The Prime God”. Pale, slender fingers clutched a glowing book, slightly gasping at the aura of the entity before him.

George stares in awe at the Prime God before him, book in hand and his fingers coated in his own blood. The young prince smiles in glee when he realizes that his spell worked. The Prime God before him merely hovers, surely having realized how important this was to George, who was (unfortunately) the youngest prince out of him and his brother, Eret, and he was so desperate for a _friend_. He was desperate for a chance to change his fate. 

“I..I did it! You’re here! You’re here, oh Great Prime God!” The Prime God chuckles lightly and seems to be pleased with the praise he was receiving. But George wanted more than just his gratitude, even as the prince was practically grovelling at the God’s feet. No, it wouldn’t be that simple if the youngest prince wanted to just serve the Prime God for all his days.

He wanted the gratitude from his kingdom. His people.  
  
George wanted the crown that his brother wore. The Prime God could do that for him.  
  
“Please, please George. _Georgie_. We’re friends now, can’t you see? So call me by my name,” The Prime God gently lands on the ground and goes behind the young prince so fast, George barely registers the action. Placing one of his hands on George’s shoulder and the other gently taking the prince’s wounded palm, the red sticky blood stains the skin slightly, and swipes his thumb across the still bleeding palm. George looks in awe as his wound slowly starts to close and leaves nothing other than a small, white scar in its wake.

“Then what is your name, Prime God? So I may call you as such?” George wants to say, _So I may cherish you as my own. So I may have you as mine_ , but he does not. 

“Dream. Call me Dream, your Majesty.” And suddenly Dream is in front of George again. Almost overpowering him, yet George feels this is a test. A test that George _knows_ he cannot fail in order to prove himself worthy of his father’s crown. To prove himself worthy of the presence of Dream.

“Why me, Dream?” The prince’s breath hitches as Dream becomes dangerously close, his delicate-looking robes moving like gardenia colored vipers. Beautiful yet dangerous, like the Prime God--Dream--himself is.  
  
“Why did you choose to show yourself to me when there were so many more willing individuals with more skill than I?” George expects Dream to merely give a half assed answer, like the ones Eret and the court loved to give him. Deep down in the inner corners of his mind, he also half expects Dream to push him away, leaving George to rot. The prince prays his insecurity doesn’t show itself on his visage.  
  
What he does not expect is for Dream to kneel before him, take George’s palm (the one that had recently been healed) into his hands, and bring it closer so that the God could press a gentle kiss to the scar left there only moments before. George can’t help but let his heart flutter a little bit at the gesture.

“Tell me what you want, George. Tell me why you summoned me,” Dream stands and leans down close to George’s ear. His breath tickling the prince’s neck, causing the brunette to shiver slightly at the sensation. 

“Tell me what you most desire, and I shall make it yours.” George half laughs in disbelief as he pulls himself away from the Prime God's suffocating thrall. Dream’s head tilts in confusion. As if he didn’t know what the prince wanted already. George finds that a little hard to believe that the God _George_ had summoned wouldn’t know what his charge _wanted_.

Unless, of course, that was the case. Now it was George’s turn to tilt his head in disbelief.  
  
“You truly don’t know what I desire the most in this world,” George starts, feeling suddenly like he’s talking to a small child, “You don’t know why I summoned you here to my plane?”  
  
“Oh, Georgie, I know _why_ you summoned me. I just don’t know the _specifics_ of what you _want_ from _me_. We Gods are not mind readers, you know.” George notices Dream’s tone shift, low and dark, at the last sentence, and it almost makes the prince regret asking questions. Almost.

“I want what is rightfully mine: The throne my forefathers had held before me; the throne my eldest brother holds now. I want his crown. I want his respect in which the people give him. I want _my kingdom!_ ” George finds himself raising his voice, but he cannot help it. Dream, however, merely sits him down gently on the prince’s feather bed, rubbing soothing circles on the small of his back. Not phased by George’s outburst in the slightest.

George remembers that though Dream can most certainly get him what he craves the most--

"The book says that the Gods don't give without taking something in return. What do you want in return, Dream?" George smirks as he sees the God take his time to think, as if this sort of question stumped him greatly. The prince resorts in tapping his fingers on his dark oak desk as his patience slowly leaves him. 

"I want you to accept the gift I have for you. I shall want nothing in return besides that." Dream says matter of factly, and George can't help but stare at him in disbelief. _A gift_? That's all? Still...he was only just a few seconds away from being King. Why not accept? 

"What is this gift you speak of then?" The God looks at him and gestures for the prince to look in his own mirror. George proceeds to take the few steps required to be in front of the mirror and takes a look in the mirror. Nothing but his own reflection. He glares at Dream, yet the God only tells him to look closer. So he does. He slowly starts to make out the silhouette of a crown on his own reflection, a rich dark metal with emeralds encrusted among its metal twists, resting delicately upon his head. A crown that did not look like his brother's or his own. 

"What is this? What does this mean, Dream?" George still stares at the reflection, rubbing his eyes to see if he is seeing things that aren't there. Yet, the crown still lingers on his reflection, unwavering in it's dark beauty. 

"This is my gift," Dream looks at him and gently takes the prince's hand into his own, "To my chosen King. A King worthy of not only the respect of mortals, but from the Gods as well." 

_My chosen King_ , rings in George's head and makes him feel pride in himself, for who he was merely a mortal deemed to be loved by the Gods and his people? Who was he to be able to bend the Gods to his will? 

George decided then that he would wear that label with pride. _Dream's chosen king_. Only for a king that was worthy of the Gods' time. 

Only for _him_.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------⚞🎕⚟---------------------------------------------------------------------

“Brother mine, what do you think the Crown is? A children’s game?”  
  
George stares at his brother as he shouts at him, almost laughing at all the times Eret had told him to _Quiet down_ or _Be still, and control yourself_ . And now looking at Eret, his sunshaders askew and his curly brown locks frazzled beyond belief, it takes all of George’s willpower not to say “I told you so.” So, instead, the new King opts for a satisfied smile and a laugh as Eret looks at him in disbelief and rage. George finds himself quite liking it. It makes his brother look more vulnerable. More frail.  
  
More like how George was in Eret’s shadow once, seeing his brother wearing a crown he did not deserve.  
  
“You think tipping the scales of power is so _fucking_ funny, don’t you, little brother? Do you not see what it will do to the balance of kingdoms? The people, what will they think? _Did you ever stop to think about them, George_!” The new King merely looks at this man he once admired, envied, hated even and only sees the rage that exudes from him. It’s starting to irritate George, and with a snap of his fingers, Dream appears by the new King’s side. Ever so dependable. 

“Who even is--” Eret is abruptly stopped when Dream settles his hand on the former King’s shoulders with a vice grip, leaving Eret to only look at George in fear and confusion. It all felt too familiar to George. He had to get out of the throne room.

“I suggest you stop talking now, Eret, unless you want to face the wrath of a new King, who, unlike you, has nothing left to lose.” Dream’s mask gives him a reassuring smile and looks at George with pride and admiration. Warming the new King’s heart a little, stalling the frozen anger from rearing its ugly head in front of his advisors.  
  


_That would be immodest, after all, to have your people fear you after all your attempts to make them love you,_ George thinks bitterly as he sees, from the corner of his eye, his advisors tremble with poorly hidden terror.

“George! Listen to me, _please_ ! I’ve only wanted what was best for the country. For _us_ . Don’t you remember, _Georgie?_ ” His older brother looks so soft, _too soft_ with those words coming out of his lips. The king immediately turns to walk out, to avoid this conversation and cease the noise eating him alive on the inside. 

“Do you even know what you want for the kingdom? Or do you just know what you want for _yourself_?” Eret’s tone has changed now and he spits out the last sentence coldly, as if it were bitter wine on his tongue, making the new king stop in his tracks.

George snaps, briskly walking over to where Eret was, pushing Dream aside in his blind fury. Pulling his brother’s chin harshly toward himself, George looks into the former King’s eyes with a gaze of resentment and disgust, snarling, “Don’t. You. _Dare_ . Try to talk to me that way. Don’t act like _you_ , of all people, deserve _sympathy_ . You don’t even deserve mercy for what you did to me. Casting me aside, leaving me in your shadow, like I was nothing but a bothersome pest to _you_.” George spat poison from his mouth like a cobra and he felt how it hurt his older brother, seeing the silent tears sliding down his cheeks gracefully. As Eret had always done things. With grace and dignity.

The new King wondered how his brother could fall the same way he ruled. How Eret could just feather fall as his world was tearing apart at the seams. It was pissing George off because _Why don’t you hurt like me? What do you still have left for you not to be sobbing and begging on your knees?_ He wanted Eret to hurt, to show any sign he was aching as his world was falling apart. Couldn’t he give George at least that, rather than sit there like a porcelain doll and take it? Couldn’t he?

“I believe,” George feels the gentle hand Dream places on his shoulder,“It’s time to make a decision on where Eret shall go, if he is to be exiled. _Your Majesty.”_

George lets the God-- his new Royal Advisor -- pull his hand away from Eret, resisting the urge to smile once again as he notices the dark bruises start to form on the former King’s chin. Knowing he caused them makes The new King’s blood sing in unbridled glee. As George feels Dream gently pulling him away to establish a safe distance between the two brothers. The King realizes that Dream’s grip is truly helping his anger subside, and that, in minutes, his desire for wrath had left him. Dull hurt replacing the ire that once set his heart aflame.

“Exile him to his wing of the castle. _Prince_ Eret is not allowed to leave the kingdom, do you understand?” He looks at his brother, who still looks resilient and graceful, like the swans that appeared in the lake, and George lets his brow dip down in frustration at the sight. 

Dream nods and beckons two guards (in which George doesn’t know the names of) to take Eret away, slipping their arms under his brother’s shoulders in unison as the former King puts up no struggle. 

“Won’t you protest, brother? Scream to the heavens about how you’ve failed them?” The soldiers stop their marching, and turn so Eret faced him again. George hoped his brother would’ve flinched but, if the words affected him, Eret certainly did not show it.

Instead, George turns to see Eret look at Dream with a cold expression, so full of loathing and hostility, he’s certain that if the former King’s glare could kill, Dream would have been mutilated.

“A last warning, brother, before I am sentenced to my exile,” George shivers at the tone Eret is using, the voice that commanded the attention of anyone who heard it. It is what gave the elder his crown and his respect. Eret is still glaring at Dream, while Dream seems to not care in the slightest.

“Do not ever trust the Gods. They are beautiful and all-knowing, yes, but they are wicked and sly. If you ever have the chance to meet one, then it shall be you who have caused your own downfall.” And with that, the former King disappears from George’s sight. Which causes George to spiral and slump on his throne, his breathing ragged and shallow and his heart creating untimed melodies of discordance against his ribcage.

Barely registering the interaction he just had with his brother, George faintly hears Dream humming a tune with a tongue he has never heard before. Sweet and soothing, George allows himself to rest (it is _his_ throne, now, after all) and lean into Dream’s form. He half expected to hear a heartbeat but, to his surprise, there is none. Only the rising and falling of Dream’s chest the King feels from under his shaking, tired frame.

To his bitter surprise, it is George who detaches himself from the embrace of Dream. Standing at the front of his throne, looking at the God who was currently slouched on his throne half-hazardly. Looking at George with wide eyes (or, at least his mask seemed that way.), Dream slowly makes his way off the throne, coming closer to George as George takes a few steps back.

“Eret was wrong, right?” George watches Dream cautiously, like a hare does with a mountain cat ready to pounce. “You aren’t going to cause my destruction? You will not cause my doom?” George is stammering now, as if he were a child afraid of his father’s wrath. But he was not his father. And he was no child. He was _The King_ god damn it! 

Dream steps close as George will let him and wipes a tear George hadn’t realized had fallen from his cheek, cooing softly, “Oh, Georgie, you know I’m here to serve _you_ , remember? You’re my _Chosen King_ . The King that was rightfully chosen by the Gods to serve them and their infinite wisdom. Do not heed the snake’s words, or _they_ shall be your downfall, _Eve_ .” George faintly remembers that story, being about some serpent and a couple of humans who paid for their sins, “Those fears of yours shall not come to pass.”  
  
“Do you believe me, George?” And George knows he does. With his whole heart, even through the five weeks since they’ve met, he does. George would entrust Dream with his life.

And so George steps closer, letting his head rest in the crook of Dream’s palm made just for him. Eventually turning into an embrace in which George has longed for from someone for so, so long. Not knowing that he was Eve, and Dream was the Snake.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------⚞🎕⚟---------------------------------------------------------------------

Screams pierce through the air as violently as blades rip through sinew and muscle and ennards. Blood flies in torrents, like scarlet rain, and floods the green fields with pools of red. 

It is not beautiful, George knows this, but a necessary evil done in the name of conquest. In pursuit of power. In the name of remembrance, this is what the king must do. He must watch men from both sides die. He must watch as the blood drips from his hands staining not just his skin, but his soul, too.

The price of kingship is paid in blood, and Dream has made sure George will never forget that.

George stands from his hill, watching the ceaseless bloodshed with little interest. He never wanted to be the one to beckon the hounds of war, yet he was the one that heard them snarl and howl. Begging to be freed. Hearing the screams of both fighting men and innocents make his head feel on the verge of explosion. He grips the reins of his white mare tighter to prevent collapsing on the ground. 

He knew the battle was won for his men. Dream had said it so. _We have the advantage,_ the God had told him in the wee hours of the morning, _Our men are skilled and capable, and, sure, many will die. But they died for the kingdom. They died for the crown. They'll gladly die for_ you. And George had been ushered to sleep with gentle touches and soft butterfly kisses from his temple to his neck. 

A soft tap on the King's shoulder accompanied by heavy footsteps pulls him out of his trance, forcing him to turn around and meet the eyes of one of his Generals, a man by the name "Sapnap". Even if it was just a moniker, George couldn’t tell if it was stupid or genius. Mayhaps, it was a little bit of both.

"We have won the battle, Your Majesty," he bows graciously, and George desperately fights off the flush threatening to redden his cheeks. No matter how many months have passed since his coronation, George may never get used to the respect or his newly found titles.

"Any other orders for my troops, Your Majesty?" George places his index finger to his lips in deep consideration, feeling Sapnap's gaze bore into his skull like the screams did earlier. The King turns to look at the village and feels something particularly insidious plague his head. Something burning him internally, like a bloodlust that couldn’t be quenched. Something--

"Burn the village." George sees from the corner of his eye Sapnap looking at him in disbelief. Like the King has gone mad. Like he is a monster.

"Your Majesty, if I may, there are _women and children_ in that village. We can't just burn it to cinders--"

" _Who are you to disobey my command? Who wears the Crown? Who is the King?"_ Sapnap is visibly shaken at the outburst, but George doesn't care. Insubordination doesn’t go unpunished, and Sapnap knew this. As did George.

_The Kingship was founded in blood. I will only continue it. It is a cycle that shall never be broken._ _I was so naive to believe that I could’ve been the one to end it._

As the order, from whom George can safely assume is delivered from Sapnap, is delivered, justice is swift and the end is even shorter. Screams are heard overhead and the chorus of cheering from his men rage even louder than those from the burning pyre adjacent to them. The fire glows in brilliant waves of red, orange, and gold, and George feels a sense of pride in taking down his father's enemies and their kingdom. Seeing the colors of his royal colors dancing in the night so brilliantly from the blaze, the King cannot help but wish for Dream. _His_ Dream. Was here with him to celebrate.

"Am I too late, George? Did I miss the victory show?" George turns around, nearly fast enough to give him whiplash, as he turns his gaze on Dream and let his God's eager hands slide down his chest and rest upon his hips. Pulling the King into a passionate kiss that felt more intense and unbridled than the war they had just won.

"I love you." George mumbles into the kiss subconsciously. Dream pulls away suddenly, and the brunette can't help but feel a sting of hurt at the recoiling.

"What are you saying, George? You're speaking in tongues. _You're acting irrational_." Now the cold anger burns inside George as greatly as the inferno that was leagues away from them. The shadows from blaze create a darkening view of George’s features, based in ire.

" _How is my love irrational? How is_ me _loving_ you _not in the question? You are my_ friend! _My_ advisor! _My God!”_ George feels the tears threaten to spill, but lets them burn the edges of his lower eyelids instead. These are all the tears the King can shed; all that he can do to stave the ghosts of feverish memory from haunting him anymore than they do.

“George. George. _George._ My dear, you’re missing the point. It’s not that I don’t love you,” Dream pauses to wipe the King’s eyelids, causing George to still at the soft contact. He wanted to melt into it, just as George had melted into the sweet kisses gently and lightly stamped onto his collarbone the night prior. How he felt all the love and the _excitement_ of being wanted. His hand reaches to ghost the spot where George’s robes were hiding his secret bruises in remembrance.

“You’re afraid I’ll get hurt because of you. Because mortals and Gods coming together in union end up burning each other to ashes? Is that it?” Dream nods and the King gently places his hands on either side of Dream’s masked face and George smiles, knowing this was the same insecurity he had felt himself once. 

“I don’t need to fear loving you, Dream. I’m your chosen King, yeah? I’m loved by the Gods! They will cower before our love that stretches the infinities and that will continue to persist after we are long gone.” Dream starts to smile now, seemingly as certain in this confession as George is. 

_There is a reason mortals fall in love with Gods so easily,_ George thinks as Dream takes his lips in for another passionate kiss that roars in the King’s mind with a promise. A promise to never hurt him. A promise for Dream to love and serve him as willingly and selflessly as George was expected to do for his kingdom.  
  
A promise to never leave his King’s side. To hold his hand as tightly as George’s father had held his mother’s long ago. He wanted to love Dream to the point of self-destruction.

And suddenly George finds the sweltering blistering light from the burning village be replaced by the soft glow of the torches above his own bed in the castle, not able to process much before Dream claws at George’s robes and tosses them aside once he’s found a way to undo them. He feels Dream demand entrance to explore his mouth with his tongue and the King gladly gives it to him, moaning Dream’s name in between breaths. Letting Dream lick stripes down George’s stomach and biting down on his exposed pale skin so hard, the King whines in equal parts pain and pleasure. Leading up to the moment when Dream would give the King more, _more, more_ as his God’s length fills him. 

George is screaming and moaning the God’s name in pure ecstasy as said God has his own hands laced with George’s, holding them above his head as they slam the headboard against the crumbling walls and shift the mattress. Only stopping when George sees white and hears Dream groan as he goes his deepest, releasing inside of the King. Ending their intimate closeness with George wincing at the oversensitivity as Dream separates himself from the brunette’s body, and collapses next to the King.

No words needed to be said. None were given that night. Only silent traces of _I love you_ and _Be mine_ in the little things Dream did, like present them both with cloths to clean themselves and give gentle kisses to the bruising purple on George’s pale skin. George holds him as close as he can and Dream pulls the brunette towards his chest, pressing a sleepy forehead kiss between the King’s brows. 

However, despite the night lingering with blissful love, George fell into restless sleep, wondering why he awoke with tears in his eyes and a steady aching in his heart.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------⚞🎕⚟---------------------------------------------------------------------

They say kingdoms fall like dominos, one event to another causing their demise when the pieces fall into place with each other, however the fall of King George was nothing but silent. Silent, and in waiting like the phases of the moon.

George stared at the bright circle of the night from his cell, feeling the cold drift in from his only view of the outside world: a small window with thick iron bars vertically placed so that there was no way to escape. No way to hide from Dream and his cutting words.

The shackles on his legs clink together, creating a symphony of pain for George’s ears. He just rests there, wondering what he did wrong? Where did the time go when he would be in his own feather bed, having Dream make love to him and tell him sweet nothings. Having Dream to hold him up higher than anyone had ever held him. Showing George the colors of the world where one person would fall behind, but Dream seemed to go too far ahead.

_Is this why Gods don’t fall in love with mortals, then?_ George ponders as he throws a stone at the walls of his confinement. _Not because they are afraid of breaking them, but because they do not care enough about them to go gentle with them. Is that why?_ Another small stone lets a dejected _thwok!_ as it hits the wall, making George let out an irritated groan and place his head on his knees. Trying to blink back tears threatening to spill.

He hears a door open and lifts his head up slightly, seeing Sapnap slide him food through the little flap of metal that can barely be considered a door, but is called as such anyways. 

_At least I get proper meals still,_ the King thinks as he takes a bite of sweet meat, eyeing why his General was still here. Watching him eat.

George would have thought the sight unnerving but, within his experience in his previous two months inside this cell, this is the most calmed he has ever felt. A part of him only tells George that the calm that has swept over him is due to Dream not being here. His advisor had not come to visit him in a few days and George didn’t know if that was a welcome sign or an ill omen. He swallowed a slice of carrot thickly, feeling his throat close up in panic at the thought of seeing Dream again. 

“Hey, George,” Sapnap whispers, even though there’s no one around to hear them, which makes George chuckle, “Do you regret the things you’ve done?” Sapnap’s voice gets louder; more matter of fact. It disturbs George greatly, just as his tone a month or so prior when he had asked the general to burn the village down had done the same for the ravenette.

George puts a finger to his lips, tapping ever so lightly against the chapped skin. Feeling the sharp sting of the teeny open cuts his finger grazes across. Thinking of an answer that would satisfy the younger general, if only temporarily. 

“I don’t. I made our kingdom strong and respected. _I_ am respected.” Sapnap looks taken aback at George’s nonchalant tone at the situation, but the King really couldn’t be bothered. Even if he was the one in metal chains, George saw that Sapnap felt more bound to his station, to his country really, that _the King_ did. 

Years ago, that would have impressed George immensely. Now, he only feels pity for this poor soul that struggles to uphold a crown built from insidious men and tainted blood.

Sapnap is about to respond to the chained King, but suddenly turns his attention to a new sound: a key being inserted, twisted around a bit, and finally being released from inside the lock of a door. Three figures walk through the doorway, but only one of them is important to the brunette. Making George’s eyes widen in fear and happiness when he sees who has come to visit him.

Dream and two guards appear, making Sapnap instantly stand at attention. Causing the God to give a slight nod of respect to the ravenette. Sapnap nods back, and George is left stunned and confused as Dream barely gives the King a glance.

“Alright, Sapnap, my friend, you’ve done well. Truly, I’m proud of you. But the King and I need some time alone. I want to talk to him about _tomorrow's plans_.” Sapnap nods and gives a polite bow to George and the knights who flanked Dream take off with Sapnap, closing the door to the prison with a sharp click. Leaving George and Dream alone together in the dark, with only the moon and the torch Dream was carrying in his hand as their only light.

“So, George,” Dream places his torch on one of the torchbearers mounted to the walls of the prison, then kneeling down in front of the cell. Eying the shackled King with a taunting tilt of his mask. “Do you know _why_ you’re in this cell? Have you taken some guesses? Tried to fish for answers and come up empty handed? Tell me, _Your Majesty_ , why do you _think_ you’re here?” 

George wants to rip off the mask from the God’s head and see how he really looks behind it. Wants to tear his beautiful silken clothing to pieces with his hands as he screams curses of every kind at a dying Dream. And, yet, at the same time, he wants Dream to touch him and set his skin on fire. George wants to be praised and loved by Dream again. Wishing wistfully for Dream to love him like he did before.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this.” George finally says to Dream, feeling a few tears rush down his cheeks as Dream laughs that damnable laughter of his that used to make George chuckle alongside Dream, too. Now, it only makes George reminisce, and that’s dangerous for a King. Not that he was much of one anyway, it seems. Not to Sapnap, or Eret, and, least of all, not to Dream.  
  


“Oh, Georgie, it was so _easy_ to use you. So fun, really, to take the throne straight from your brother and use it to _kill_ you.”

George is in disbelief as Dream laughs once more, tears pouring and his heart feels like it’s ripping at the seams. He’s losing himself and the only person George has ever loved.

He was on top of the world, and now it has shifted. 

Instead of the wails from the hundreds of _thousands_ of innocent people he had culled, he was listening to his own screams and wails. He looks up only to find Dream in front of the broken King at his weakest moments, and giving him a short, torturous kiss.

And was all it took. That was his fall. His doom. Dream's last poisonous kiss was one that sent George tumbling into madness and _Why, why, why_ ? _I slayed armies. Gave you kingdoms. Filled goblets with the blood of millions of innocent lives. Entrusted you with my heart. What more did I have to give?_ The king wails in despair. Hoping fruitlessly for this to be a nightmare.

And Dream, oh ruthless, brilliant Dream, only said against his lips: 

"If only that were enough to make _anyone_ love _you._ " 

George’s blood runs cold as the Prime God is in front of his cell again, having phased through the bars with no issue. 

“Your execution is at noon. I hope you have your last words prepared. I would hate for you to go to Heaven or Hell with regret.” Dream chuckles as he leaves, the manic melody causing George to shiver in fear rather than due to the winter chill coming through his window. The broken King due to be executed like a lamb to the slaughter leans the back of his skull against the wall. Replaying the conversation he had just had with Dream in his head and looking at the cold white light of the moon. 

It is then that George remembers Eret’s words, the words he said to him before George exiled him to his wing of the castle.

_Do not ever trust the Gods. They are beautiful and all-knowing, yes, but they are wicked and sly._ George winces at the familiarity of that sentence, hoping that mindlessly staring at the moon would make him forget it all. If not before his execution tomorrow, then now when his thoughts are the loudest.

_If you ever have the chance to meet one, then it shall be you who have caused your own downfall._ George bursts into more tears, opting to let them out in their entirety then to attempt to cover the sobs with the back of his hand or chewing his lips until they are chapped and raw. He cries and cries and despairs with how he could have been less foolish and more kind. More accepting of his place in the hierarchy.

George sits and waits until morning, only falling asleep when the sun barely peeks through the blanket of night, counting down the time he has left to live. Before ultimately dying to the hands of the one he loved most.

He had no one to blame but himself, and that is his biggest regret.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------⚞🎕⚟---------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s rain on the day of George’s execution. The sky has become a canvas of greys, light and dark, through George’s little window. To think the King only saw the moon and most of the stars just a few hours prior to this. Waiting here to die makes him want to say a prayer, but he doesn’t. George knows his soul is too damned to beg for salvation to a God that wasn’t his own.

His cell door opens, and two guards start unshackling the restraints on his ankles. George notices they’re rushing, pulling the broken King to his feet faster than his mind can register. With an iron grip that was sure to leave bruises under his arms, but what was the use of complaining? Of fighting against Death when it is knocking at your door?

_Is this acceptance?_ George wonders as he feels his mind clear of all the terror his heart was building up, _Do I accept my fate? My death?_ And George feels he does accept this. For he is a servant to the whims of his people, and if his subjects wanted to see him hang so be it.

Even if his stomach felt like someone had stuffed it full of rocks and his tongue felt drier than the deserts, he’ll be a dutiful king until the bitter end.

As he is pushed through the crowds, George keeps his head trained to the ground, hearing the shouts of _monster!_ and _baby-eater!_ and _tyrant!_ from the people he so loved. Whom George had promised to serve until his dying breath.

Being forced up a set of wooden stairs, George looks up to see Sapnap standing at attention near a large gallow, the noose swaying like a pendulum in the wind. The rain has started to fall harder now, wetting the audience and his executioners. Not even touching Dream just a little.

Dream. Of course. The man behind George’s mess? No. The God before him merely let George control his own destiny and pulled the strings from behind like a puppeteer. No matter what he wants to believe, the King knows that his actions were his own. Even as he steps up on the wooden box Sapnap provides him. Even as the rope is slipped around his neck and tightened as such, George merely looks at the mob below him, screaming as loudly as his own demons inside him are. Cheering for blood.

“Any last words, _Georgie_?” The King had not realized the God was behind him, whispering in his ear and using the nickname for him that would have once made George feel soft. Now, it only makes him feel nauseous.

“No. All of my last words were said last night. I have no more regrets.” Both Dream and George know the underlying message behind those words: _I am ready to die_. And so Dream steps away, gesturing for the General to cut the rope. Not even saying a final goodbye to him.

_This is the end_ , George closes his eyes as he waits for the drop that would snap his neck. _This is all that’s left. This is all they will remember of me._ The broken King hopes, at least, that Dream will let his death be swift. Surely, he couldn’t be that cruel. Surely--

“George, wait--” He snaps his eyes open to see Eret, face contorted in horror and George instinctively starts to extend his hand toward him. 

_Too late_ , George feels himself falling, knowing his only leverage would be the rope once it snapped his neck below. He finds that he’s flailing, cursing himself because he can’t face his own doom as bravely as Eret did his. And, in the end, his elder brother was right. And George was just as naive as he had been before meeting Dream.

The King never feels the sharp bite of the rope or hears the snap of his neck, for instead he sees the forest that lies just outside the kingdom’s walls. If not a few meters away from them. George is very confused, until he turns to see what brought him here. Or rather _who_ , as he sees familiar green and golds and feels a warmth on his hand that could only belong to one being.

Harshly slipping his hand out of Dream’s grasp as if it would burn him alive, George takes a few steps back. Securing a safe distance between himself and the entity that, only moments before, had set for his execution. The rain falls harder now, soaking George and flooding the mossy plain in which the two stood on. He musters a glare at the God, for all the hurt he’s caused. But, as usual, Dream didn’t seem to care.

“Why save me from my own execution? Why did you bring me here?” And _gods_ did he hate asking all these questions to Dream, feeling powerless to the game the entity enjoyed making the former King play.

“Oh, George,” Dream laughs and it’s a horrible sound. Discordant and manic, George is frozen in place. Feeling as small as he did when Dream placed him in the prison cell.

“Did you _really_ think that I could just let you go so easily?” Dream appears behind him, snaking his hand over George’s shoulder. Resting it on his neck, and squeezing tightly. Making George whimper unwillingly.  
  
“I enjoy our little games we play,” Dream dips his head down to the brunette’s ear, his breath burning, “And I’ll enjoy the thrill of the hunt even more now.” George gasps and holds his hand to his throat, trying to take in all the air he can after Dream’s hand leaves his windpipe. 

“So run, George. Run, run, _run_!” George sees that Dream has taken off his mask, revealing the crazed nature of the God at last. Having those emerald eyes pierce a strange kind of fear in George. His dark-blonde locks of hair shining brilliantly, even when the sky was at its darkest and the rainfall at its strongest.

And so George runs, he runs as fast as his legs can carry him as Dream continues to laugh. Knowing that no matter how far he goes, no matter how fast he runs, the entity would catch up to him soon.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------⚞🎕⚟---------------------------------------------------------------------

George feels the presence of Dream everywhere his first 6 months or so alone. He can still smell him on his clothes, no matter how many times he washes them in a desperate attempt to get it out. George sees him in his nightmares, and wakes up sobbing and screaming _I can make you love me. I can be worthy to be your chosen King again. Please. Please._ These are the worst nights because he stares at the ceiling afterwards as silent tears pour slowly until morning bleeds through George's window. He half wishes Dream would visit him, but even George is not that naive. Not anymore.

He starts to hallucinate. Seeing Dream in places he shouldn't see him. And George talks to the hallucinations, too, at first in kind, slowly building up to anger, bordering on hurt and ending in tears. 

One day, George realizes he is truly alone in this Exile. 

But he can't bring himself to cry anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! This fic took me three days to write and I have a few little things for you!
> 
> 1\. Thank you all who are here after "Oh, Icarus" (I assure you, more Quackbur content will be posted here in the future. I'm not done with those two boys yet!)
> 
> 2\. I want to also insert this playlist I made of songs I listened to as I was writing "Holding a Crown Which Has Dried Blood on It"  
> \---https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLBb7cs81aovpDRvMQX4vnX2pznzZOsNqh---
> 
> 3\. For updates on fics I am writing (if you want them), I'll be posting them on my Twitter: @/boostspoonlive
> 
> That's all for now! Have a nice day!


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